


The Hallowed Eve

by Lovely_Silhouette



Series: Lesbians and Fairies [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Blood, Blood Drinking, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Fate cycles and the inevitability of death, Female Dante (Devil May Cry), Female Vergil (Devil May Cry), Gender or Sex Swap, Lesbians, Loneliness, Major Character Death applies to characters already dead by the start of the story, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Necromancy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge, Self-Sacrifice, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Some Chapters May Contain Their Own Content Warnings - Reader Discretion is Advised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Silhouette/pseuds/Lovely_Silhouette
Summary: “My life closed twice before its close;It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveilA third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceive,As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.”~ “Parting,” Emily DickinsonIt’s mid-fall when Dante gets a job to check out a missing person’s case and gets dragged into an old legend about missing women with silver hair, and an immortal enchantress haunting the ruins of an ancient manor house.
Relationships: Dante & Nero (Devil May Cry), Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Kyrie/Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero & Nico (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Lesbians and Fairies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913551
Kudos: 13
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	The Hallowed Eve

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this chapter is a reference to [The Sixth Stop](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwTqNNXNQnA) by Joe Hisaishi, which was the main background track for writing this chapter lol. This work is set in the same universe as [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333536) fic.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys!

Dante doesn’t take many cases outside of the city. Not because people suddenly stop going missing when one finds themselves outside city limits, but because she normally has her hands full with people who want her to do what the inner city police either can’t or won’t do. There are places to go to ground in the city that no one would be able to find, and sometimes simply moving a couple dozen blocks means that you would never see a familiar face again. Dante has taken every kind of case from fleeing debtors to missing children; despite the change in location, this case doesn’t look to be any different.

Two days ago, a letter found itself in the dusty mailbox of the DMC Private Investigator’s office. The details were simple: an address to meet the client at to discuss details, a missing sister, no trace has been found to indicate where she went, and a suspicion of foul play.

GMaps says that the location for the address is a good five hours outside of the city limits. Some small backwoods village by the name of Red Grave, population only 7,042. A quick google search would lead her to believe it was the oldest town in the county. Looking at the photos of the place, Dante believes it. Wood and stone foundations for many of the oldest structures, brick and mortar buildings built in a traditional style she hasn’t seen outside of old movies.

Clients usually come to the office for this step, bringing with them their concerns and information. Usually only the discreet or infirm need an alternative rendezvous, and the number of bus tokens she’s bought over the years, enough to fit in one hand, should tell you how often that happens.

Come to think of it, this will be one of the few times she can say she’s been outside of the city limits in all her adult years. This far out, the air has a heady quality, free of smog and car exhaust and human odor, fresh and clean in a way that only fresh earth smells like. The scenery, once gray and slate and neon, turns vibrant shades of emerald green, carnelian red and pale yellow the further Dante gets. Tarmac quickly becomes meticulously manicured lawns, and when they pull off the freeways manicured lawns slowly become overtaken by picturesque open fields that practically undulate with stubborn wildflowers that cling to life as the autumn chill sets in. The bus she rides treks across ancient hills that oversee solemn lakes and dreary moors obfuscated by looming trees. Out here, there are no sounds of traffic, of honking horns and impatient yells and legions of footsteps pounding across pavement to break up the rhythmic whisper of wind in the leaves.

It’s a beautiful sight. One she thought she left behind after she ran away from home as a teenager.

Dante remembers the sun just peaking over the buildings when she got on the bus that morning. Napping sped its journey across the sky to where she has to put her hand over her eyes to block a ray of light that pierces the overhanging clouds. The bus stop she’s dropped off at sits at the corner of what looks to be one of the town center’s only four-way intersections. People throw her curious looks as they stroll by, curling their noses and furrowing their eyebrows into scowls as they take her in. She walks down the road, following the directions on her phone’s gps, and they hurry to pass her, or quiet down and retreat into whatever space is available to keep away.

Dante narrows her eyes and stuffs her fists into her pockets. Weird, but not worse than whatever kind of looks she gets in Capulet. Usually the dirty looks only come after they see her badge, or if she’s been on another weekend bender with Trish.

She really hasn’t missed small town attitudes. The smaller the town, the bigger the attitude.

* * *

Finding the address the client asked to meet at is both simple and annoying. The street Dante is looking for is a long one well away from the main road, which isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a fun hike when toting around a large, heavy backpack. It hosts several large homes, most of which have a grand, ancient feel to them. It’s less to do with their sizes, of which these are relatively normal for old residences. Instead, they have this feeling like they’ve been there since the beginning, patiently waiting.

Great, thick trees tower over everything, casting their massive shadows into high-walled gardens like titans of myth. Vines climb the walls and ornate iron gates, leaves spilling out onto the sidewalk and obscuring what looks like little painted cottages and homes. Chirps and birdsong echo across the sky down to her.

The scent of several flowers Dante has forgotten the name of linger heavy in the air. It’s a wonder people can even breathe with all these plant scents. Pollen season must be a bitch around here.

The houses all sit on one side of the curved road that encircles a single, much larger house, arranged almost like posted guardians. The home is beautiful, all tasteful stone and rustic brick, stained glass and dark shingles and trees and bushes with leaves still just as vividly green as if it were still the middle of summer, surrounded by a glassy moat ringed with lily pads and gently swaying cattails. Almost idyllic.

It’s also the only home on the street without an address, and none of the other ones match the one she was given.

There’s a long bridge of cobblestone that connects the small island the house was built on. The gray stones feel warm under her shoes. The air turns balmy, the scent of long-forgotten flowers being replaced by subtle hints of roses and lilies. Sunlight breaks through the clouds to cast itself upon glass and glass-like water, darkening shadows and revealing little details that remained obscured by the scattered light. Birdsong warbles in the sky above.

Breath catches in her throat. Dante has to pause, just for a moment. Just long enough to take the world in. There’s something nostalgic about it.

The walk across isn’t quiet, not with crickets chirping in the weeds and birdsong in the air, but it’s peaceful in a way that’s long forgotten to the modern world. The house -- a manor house, really -- is easily three stories tall, with a large walk-in garden tucked into the side of a long brick privacy fence.

Dante whistles appreciatively, slowing to an idle stroll to take it all in. “Whoever lives here must come from some old money,” she mutters to the breeze and wonders how far her voice carries out here. It’s nice enough out that she chances taking off her red leather jacket and is rewarded with a pleasantly cool breeze that should be out of place this late in the year on her skin.

Using the brass knocker -- and actual brass knocker! -- produces a deep clanging sound, but no one comes to investigate the source even after she knocks again. Looking around, she spots an open window on the second floor.

“Hello?” Dante calls out towards it. “Anyone home? Hello?”

A head pops out, an older gentleman with dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes, wearing what looks like a nice, pressed dark shirt. There’s a frown on his face, eyes squinting in disapproval or maybe against just the light overhead, but it falls away quickly in a look of blank surprise.

“Hi, is this the home of a Vergil Walrider?” Dante asks, raising an eyebrow. “My name’s Dante Langdon. I was told to come here.”

The man gives a brisk nod and his head disappears. He must have sprinted down the nearest staircase for how quickly the door opens. He stands aside and gives a perfectly polite motion for her to come inside. It reminds her of the old dimestore mystery novels Trish reads where the old butler welcomes visiting nobility. This close, Dante can see the all black attire he wears. The hairs prickle on the back of her neck for reasons she can’t describe. Her hands start to clench, so she slips them into her pockets.

The interior of the house is just as idyllic as the exterior; old wood panel walls stained and varnished a rich dark oak color, with a rug so plush that her feet sink in. There’s an armoire probably for coats and hats close to the stairs going up and a huge white marble fireplace in the wall opposite the main entry, sitting cold and empty and dark. The space above it is empty, barren, but there’s a faint outline in the varnish approximately the size of a large portrait. Dante quietly notes that the stairs are on the opposite side of the house from the window the old man stuck his head out of.

After letting her in, the old man just stares at her. Dante doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Is she just supposed to wander around until she finds her client? Is this the part where she waits like a good guest for the owner to come make small talk like this really is a dimestore mystery? Or maybe he’s staring at her for the same reason the townspeople were?

After several long moments of staring, the silence starts to grate. “Sorry if you were expecting me at a different time,” she says, hiking up a strap from where it’s starting to dig into her shoulder. “The letter didn’t really give much beyond the address and the reason I was hired.”

A shake of his head answers her, hair slicked back to not move a hair out of place. He waves his hand at her bag and then at the floor, a request to leave it here. Dante drops it, grunting with relief as the pack hits the floor with an audible thud that has the man raising an eyebrow, and leans it against the wall within easy grabbing distance. When she’s done, he jerks his chin to one of the side corridors off the main entryway and motions for her to follow him.

Strange guy hasn’t spoken a single word. Maybe he’s mute by choice. Maybe he got throat cancer. It’s none of her business unless the clues point her in his direction.

They pass by several rooms, all with the same comfortable look that only well-made decor and a rich, classical sense of style can give. Stained glass windows carelessly throw hues of indescribable color across the walls, painted them with beautiful mosaics of flowering vines, blooming trees and what looks like a family crest.

Definitely some old money.

The double doors he leads Dante to opens to reveal a library, impressively huge, split into what looks like a squat H formation, and split further between two floors. It’s lit with what look like electric lanterns, the kind that give the illusion of old candle lights, hanging from pillars of carved while stone and from two chandeliers that dangle above the more open areas. Hundreds of books like the dark oak shelves, titles in English, several Romantic languages, German, Cyrillic and what Dante thinks is kanji if she squints, peaking out from around several odd, esoteric structures, instruments and tools of glass and bronzed and brass metals. Windows, tall and set in wrought metal frames, let in a surprising amount of natural light for how narrow they are, pointed directly towards the overcast noon sun.

The carpet is blue and gold beneath her feet as Dante steps in, soft and detailed with a pattern of twisting, thorny vines. The doorway enters into the middle cross-section of the room, across from a small square desk with an antique-looking globe on one corner and thick book sitting open on a random page at the other. The painting of a man and a woman sits on the wall above it, the woman smiling, blond and straight-backed, belly large with child, the man stern, silver hair long and wild, a sword at his hip. The patina on the stylized metal frame says it’s an older portrait, probably no less than a century old.

Dante pushes her near-translucent bangs out of her face. Her mother used to tell her that she was special because of it. Because no one on either side of the family had silver hair. Very few people in the world have that shade, she said.

Her guide gestures for her to make a right, into a wing seemingly dedicated for quiet, peaceful reading. Fashionable white chairs and loveseats collect around a fireplace on one side, but the old man leads her right past them. The way to the second floor is up a staircase of polished wood, a tight spiral designed to take up as little room as possible.

Dante catches a glimpse of her part of the way up. She stops to take a better look, and feels like her heart jumps into her throat.

She’s beautiful. Dressed in a matching dark navy casual suit with a softer and a lighter blue blouse beneath the closed jacket, a ruby and gold necklace hanging heavily from her long throat. The light from the window casts soft shadows across her face from where she sits reading in another of those white armchairs. They don’t disguise the sharpness of her brow and jaw, the fullness of her mouth, the high cheekbones, the thin nose or the narrowed quality of her vibrant blue eyes.

Silver haired, too. Just like the man in the portrait. Just like the hair that hangs in a mop to Dante’s own shoulders. Silver hair that is cut short and slicked back, yet still remains wild, untameable. There’s a little forelock that stubbornly droops down over her face that is absurdly cute for reasons Dante can’t properly articulate.

She’s beautiful, but Dante can’t help but feel uneasy as she looks up at her. The eyes aren’t unusual by any means. The hair _is_ unusual, sure, but Dante can’t talk considering her own situation.

But, no, the thing that sits uncertain and nervous in her gut is the fact that, if they had the same style, this woman could have been her double. They even look the same age.

The old man is looking down at Dante questioningly. She moves up silently with heavy feet and doesn’t know exactly why she feels so off-balance all of a sudden.

The woman glances up from her book and they lock eyes for a moment that seems to stretch on into eternity, causing Dante to freeze at the top of the stairs. Why does it feel like her heart is beating like crazy in her chest? Dante can’t read the look on her face.

“Dante,” the woman declares, soft and intent. Like she’s tasting the word as it rolls off her tongue.

It’s enough to jolt her out of whatever the hell kind of fog is drifting through her brain. “That’s my name. Is there a Vergil Walrider around?”

Her lips quirk up. Amused. The strange feeling in Dante’s gut intensifies. “That would be my name.”

“Huh. I thought Vergil was a guy’s name.”

“It’s my name and the one my parents gave me.” Vergil closes her book with a quiet snap and places it on a nearby side table. “I’m glad you’ve arrived. I was wondering if my letter would ever reach you. Please, have a seat.”

Dante moves to the chair on the other side of the window and drops into it. It’s a testament to the furniture’s make that it doesn’t so much as groan under the abuse. “An email would have been quicker, but here I am now. You have a job for me, right? The letter had some details, but I’d rather get them directly from you, if you don’t mind getting right down to business.”

“Not at all. My younger sister has been missing for some time now,” Vergil says, brief smile dropping. Dante pulls out a small notepad and pen from one of her jacket’s many pockets and flips to a blank page. She loves it when her clients get right to the point. “She’s rarely ventured further than the village borders as a child, or even as an adult. So you can imagine my distress when suddenly, one day, she wasn’t home anymore. I’ve tried looking everywhere, but I couldn’t find her.”

“What’s your sister’s name?” Dante asks by rote, making notes as she goes. Younger sister, adult, rarely leaves town, client already searched village, may have to expand into the surrounding woods if a physical search becomes necessary. “When did she go missing? What’s her age? What clothing was she wearing when you last saw her? What does she look like? Those types of details could help. Also, do you have a photo of her on hand?”

“Her name is Dante.”

Her pen makes a jagged mark across the paper. Dante feels her eyebrows drifting into her hairline. “Excuse me?”

Vergil gives her another smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Quite the coincidence, isn’t it,” she says, and it’s a question in phrasing, except Dante doesn’t hear a question at all. “You have her name, her sense of style, and I’m sure that if you stood next to her then one would think you both twins.”

“That so, huh? That really is a heck of a coincidence.”

“Indeed,” Vergil agrees, “Your spotless reputation precedes you even this far out, Ms. Langdon. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I look up reputable investigators after the police have failed me and find you, the twin to my own twin sister, in a city so far away. Tell me, are you 28 years old as well?”

Dante hand clenches around her pen before she begins tapping the other end against the notepad. She can feel her lips thinning and her pulse in her ears. “Yeah. Uh, when did you say your sister went missing again?”

“I didn’t.” Vergil smiles without humor. “But the last I saw her was at the very end of last month, on the 30th.”

Well, that’s good to know. Dante forces herself to stop tapping and instead writes ‘30th of Sept?’ on the next line of her notes. “For a second there, I thought you were about to tell me it’s been something like 20 years.” The humor is awkward, deliberately asinine, and she tries not to let the brief spark of relief she feels show. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Time passes in the quiet library. Vergil tells her as much as she can and answers Dante’s questions readily and without much hemming and hawing. It’s less trouble than how it goes with some of her clients back in the city, and certainly less trouble than Dante was prepared to deal with after 5 hours on a bus without stopping.

The lines quickly become filled with her familiar scrawl, details to be investigated as thoroughly as she can. Dante Walrider was last seen dressed in a red jacket, jeans, tennis shoes and large sunglasses. She has had several previous addresses, but her last known place of residence was their family’s manor-house. Vergil can’t give Dante any important documents like her sister’s birth certificate or her ID, but she can produce a photo, slightly grainy and on older film. Vergil tells Dante that her sister went through a period photography phase. That this was taken by an older model camera to simulate them as if it were 30 years ago. They stand side by side in what looks to be the side garden, dressed in clothes Dante might have found deep in her mother’s closet. They’re smiling at each other, bodies oriented towards each other and leaning in as if sharing a secret, wearing matching amulets: Vergil in gold, her sister in silver.

They look close.

“I’ll find her,” Dante promises.

“I know you will,” Vergil replies, solemn and certain, and nods her thanks.

With nothing else to ask, Dante returns her pen and notepad to her pocket. “That should be enough for now. I’ll return when I have more information. Should I meet you here at any specific times, or…?”

“No need for that,” Vergil says, getting up. She pats her clothing as if getting off dust. “The only business I have will be with my herbalism and homeopathy shop in town. It’s “Minute Particulars”, a few blocks off main street.”

Dante hums in thought. “”Minute Particulars”... Is that a William Blake reference?”

Vergil stares at her as if startled by her. Like she’s only just now seeing her despite them having conversed for close to an hour. Then she smiles. It’s small, just a quirk of the lips, but it makes the corners of her eyes crinkle and soothes the stress lines already creasing her forehead.

Dante feels her breath catch.

“I’m surprised you recognized it. Not many read poetry these days,” Vergil says, picking up her book. Dante glances down and sees a large V scrawled across the front and an “Anthology of William Blake” scrawled across the spine. She doesn’t have the heart to tell Vergil that the only reason she knows about the quote is because she dated a poetry nerd in college. “My kin, Nero, runs the shop when I’m not there. He also lives here with us. If you have any further questions and I’m not able to see you, feel free to seek him out.”

“Good to know. If you ever need to find me, you’ve got my number. I’ll text you my hotel address and room number once I’ve got that settled.”

“You can stay here, if you wish,” Vergil offers, waving a hand to the stairs. She leads them down, passed the large portrait that stares at their backs even as the doors close. “I have more than enough room. It would be poor manners on my part if I’d asked you to come all the way to Red Grave and not offered you a place to stay in the meantime.”

A kind, convenient gesture. “Are you sure? ‘Cause I really can just find somewhere else.”

“Nonsense,” Vergil announces promptly, her face set and narrow in that way that always says she’s already made up her mind. The silent man from earlier drops into step with them, only for Vergil to wave her hand at him. He bows and strolls off down another corridor. “I have plenty of rooms that are currently unused. We’ll set you up in the east wing, near my room.”

They pass by the front room, early afternoon sunlight streaming in through beautifully etched windows. The bags Dante left by the door are gone, all of her clothing, toiletries, documentation and equipment nowhere to be seen. Probably picked up by who Dante is starting to suspect is the head -- possibly only -- servant of the property.

Vergil leads her to a door a few rooms off from the main corridor of the wing, knocking sharply on it before opening. The first thing Dante notices is her bag, placed neatly on top of a vivid emerald bedspread. Everything looks accounted for at a glance. The rest of the room is colored warm and homely, with the bed being four-poster and shrouded by drawn beige curtains. The walls are half-wooden panels the shade of rosewood and half painted a warm silver. There are several older light fixtures on the walls like those in the library, complementing the older style chest of drawers and writing desk, as well as the coffee table placed out of the way in a tiny sitting area. Around the room are a few shelves adorned with mirrors, pictures of various landscapes and what looks like dried herbs, which lend the room the subtle, nostalgic fragrance of saint john’s wort and rosemary. It’s a little on the superstitious side with the wreath of dill hanging over the doorway, but it’s not a bad place to bed down for the night. Dante had slept in storm drains before, so she would know.

“The sheets will be fresh, but please let someone know if you see any dust or spiders around,” Vergil says softly. “We’ll take care of it, as well as any meals. Your stay here will be made as comfortable as possible.”  
“That’s too much-”

“You’re helping me find my sister. That’s reason enough,” Vergil smiles, and for the first time she looks drawn. Tired. The skin around her mouth tightens with tension. “Get settled in, then do what you need to do. I’m afraid the manor doesn’t have anything in the way of internet service, so if you need it, you’ll have to go into town. Everything else, you need only ask.”

Dante nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll head to the library as soon as I’m done here.”

“Good luck, Ms. Langdon. Stay safe.”


End file.
